


Exercising repentance.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, hiddlestoners
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Blasphemy, Church Sex, Confessional, Confessional Sex, Erotica, F/M, Het, Kink, Lemon, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Priest, Priest Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:45:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OFC goes to church to have something to repent for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exercising repentance.

The Orthodox rite of confession bears little resemblance to the commonly fetishized Catholic one, although the very setting of it is blatantly more erotic than its western counterpart. There’s none of the comforting anonymity provided by a partitioned confessional separating one from the condescending expression of the ever so righteous Man of God, nor that blessed seat that would save so many knees from becoming grotesquely worn out from the custom kneeling, either when purging their most intimate darkness or simply praying. But, then again, the Eastern Church has only very little regard for people as social entities outside its walls, let alone the feeble junctures of their old bones (since an overpowering majority of the attendees are senior citizens with an amusingly short time to bargain their unchristian youths for posthumous providence) and even less for my designer clothes.

The procedure is simple: fast for a week before the event, which I never do, first of all, because they would never know (spoiler alert, there’s no omnipotent man in the sky to give me literal hell for my untruths), and second, because it takes me either bacon or sex (both of them strictly prohibited when fasting) to get me going through the day. I am a woman of great intellect, and greater responsibilities - the joys of the flesh are an indispensable necessity.

Which is ultimately why I’m here, the prodigal daughter, zealous atheist, dutifully listening to the preparatory prayers recited by the young, handsome priest standing before us - Father Thomas, I believe, according to the couple of women behind me praising his heartfelt sermons and pleasant singing voice - a thick book in one hand, blessing with the other.

They’re usually old and, with it being a requirement of the job, married, preferably with children, unless they’re monks, that is, but that is too depraved a conduct for me to even consider. These men, however, know the body of a woman and the pleasures it furnishes, and their insatiable libidos are a matter of their own doing, as renouncing an indulgence already familiar is a feat more trying than denying it altogether, and their need, their struggle, their indoctrinated guilt of strife in the first place, the biting words of dutiful reprimand trembling as they’re spoken. Faith is not something I have adhered to for a long while, but spirituality is a matter of great importance to me, and this is the core manifestation of it.

I’m kneeling in from of his sitting form, head bowed down under the azure stole hanging from his neck, in an empty room of a building adjacent to the church. The first questions are more along the lines of the introduce yourself part of a job interview rather than an actual confession, ‘what’s your name’, ‘how old are you’, ‘how long has it been since your last confession’, ‘how long have you fasted’, routine interrogation and then an anticipatory pause, the cue to start.

“I touch myself. For pleasure.”

The sigh is expected and well known. It precedes a soft chastisement.

“You shouldn’t do that. It’s not good for you.”

“Most doctors would argue with you on that.”

“Doctors who do not live by the Word of God, surely. Why don’t you seek a man to satisfy you, and marry him?”

He’s crouched over me, steady breaths warming my forehead. Raising my eyes to meet his, I answer.

“It would take more than one to please me.”

His face is clear from judgement, but dark nevertheless, a darkness which I never expected and am not prepared to see in such a circumstance.

“Would it?”

To my surprise, it’s my voice that trembles in response with unwanted need, “yes”.

“How would you know? Have you had one?”

“So many, Father, men and women, and it was never enough.”

“Perhaps none of them were good enough.”

His tone is inviting, and so is his look, and, in a spur of courage, I rest my palm onto his leg and he doesn’t jerk away, but flinches, never breaking eye contact, as I feel him through the robe, upwards his thigh until a quiet moan escapes him, and, if i weren’t so generally freaked out with the foreign course of events an otherwise well-known circumstance one way or another led to, I probably would’ve yanked the fabric away and latched my mouth on this hardened cock. But as I undoubtedly am, I refrain from any other movement than the gentle strokes, patiently waiting for him to take the first step in whatever direction he may please.

He pulls the robe up himself, and unfastens his trousers hurriedly, releasing the enlarged flesh, veins pulsing swollen and hot, head glistening appetisingly. My cunt moistens and relaxes, ready to take it in wholly. Not forgetting the afore-mentioned most probable restrictive behaviours when it comes to sex, I don’t risk sucking him off for fear he might cut our time short, resorting to rolling a condom over him and raising to my feet to straddle him.

“Wait, don’t you need to-” his fingers are at my entrance, preparing to make their way in, but I swat them away before they do.

“No,” I warn, effectively sitting on his dick in one deliberate movement. His girth forcibly stretches me open and I hurt for an instant, but his low grunt against my neck makes me mewl instead of anything else.

My motions are shallow in the beginning, but grow furious, rapid and firm, meeting his, and I’m soundlessly crying out my gratification, my mouth wide open and my head tilted backwards, panting what I cannot scream as he deftly circles my clitoris, drawing out delightful contractions from my tight muscles. He’s forced to halt when, falling forwards with a whimper, I come, holding onto his head desperately, and waits until I regain enough of my senses to resume fucking him until his own orgasm finally stills us.

He heartily laughs as, with a tired smirk, cupping his face, I chuckle a breathy, “bless me father for I have sinned?”

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to study, but I got bored and rubbed one off, and then this happened. In my defence, it was time that I wrote something involving Tom and the church. It was a quick one and I’m lacking a beta reader so, until I get to editing it myself, I profusely apologise for any errors.
> 
> Thank you for reading, folks and, don’t forget, criticism is golden *throws snickers bars at you*
> 
> (originally posted on skinnylittleredwrites.tumblr.com)


End file.
